Steele in Her Heart
by RSteele82
Summary: (An ItCHY story). An alternate ending to Steele of Approval. Laura arrives at the Rossmore to find Remington preparing to depart for lands unknown. Can they work through the damage wrought by her speech suggesting they needed time apart and find a way to move forward together? Written for Steele86
1. Chapter 1

_**This story was written part as the ItCHY stories for Steele86.**_

 _ **Alternate aftermath to Steele of Approval.**_

 _ **As always, I do not own these characters. I simply borrow them because I love them.**_

* * *

Chapter 1

Laura sat in the Rabbit, side of her head resting on the steering wheel, staring at the building before her.

The Rossmore.

Despite having been born and raised in the city of Los Angeles, if only three short years ago someone had asked her the name of the building, she'd have been unable to say. The neighborhood was hardly one she'd haunted in the past either professionally or personally. Apartment and condominium buildings catering to the successful professional lined one side of the street while Hancock Park abutted the other side, providing residents of these costly residences unfettered view of not only the park, but the Los Angeles skyline, as well, from top floors. While she'd dated some affluential men, they had favored the high rises located in the middle of the city, buildings which tended to be convenient to their work and offered many amenities. The Rossmore was not about convenience, but personal style.

Three years ago, she hadn't even known it existed, but in the three years since?

The bittersweet memories of her time spent with the man who lived in the building assailed her.

Quiet evenings spent leaning against the rails of the balcony, staring out at the skyscape, laughter frequently flowing between them. Romantic nights, laying before the fireplace, glasses of champagne in hand, conversing in soft voices. Seductive evenings, dancing in his living room, sharing tantalizing kisses, fleeting touches, but never anything more than that. Comfortable, lazy afternoons, he sitting with feet propped on the coffee table, she laying with her head on his lap, his fingers toying with her hair, as they watched a double feature of his beloved movies together.

It was within those walls, with _him_ , that she'd sought solace after her home had been destroyed, when she'd felt as though her entire world had imploded. He'd… taken care of her, that was the only phrase for it, with a gentleness she'd come to know was part of his nature, not divined for the purpose of seduction. Then, on that first night, as the rain pattered against the windows and the skies lit for lightening, she'd offered herself to him.

* * *

" _ **Tonight, if you asked me, I don't think I could say no."**_

" _ **Tonight… I don't think I could ask."**_

* * *

She'd been left initially feeling bereft when he'd turned her down, but as the sun had rose on the new day and her grief had briefly lost its razor-sharp edge, she'd recognize his refusal for what it was: the most poignant moment of her life. He'd been waiting for more than a year for them to turn that corner, cross that line. Most men would have taken advantage of her moment of vulnerability, either believing they were offering her comfort of a kind or would have been simply content to allow her to deal with the myriad of regrets which would have followed on the morning after. His refusal had underscored the innate… decency… she'd realized very early in their association was core to who he was.

It was within those walls that she'd experienced her first irrational, inexplicable bout of jealousy when it came to this man, as Felicia had slinked out of his bedroom draped in one of his dressing gowns. And it was within those walls that only a week later, he'd first displayed his own streak of jealousy where she was concerned, as she'd arrived at his apartment with Creighton Phillips in tow. They'd made up as often as they'd fought within those walls.

It was within those walls that she'd conducted the longest romance she'd ever had with a man. It was within those walls that he'd most often shared pieces of himself, his past, at times mistakenly having let his guard down for too long while at other times he dared to let her past all walls he'd erected around himself, entrusting her to keep those pieces of himself safe. It was from there that she'd fled countless times, when kisses and gentle caresses, even in the most innocent of places, left her burning with need and she'd find herself panicking over the cost to her heart should they cross that line.

And it was within those walls that she'd left him only hours before sitting on the couch, confused, shocked… defeated.

* * *

 _ **"Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together? Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?"**_

 _ **"Laura, if you're talking about my allergy to legwork—"**_

 _ **"No, it's got nothing to do with that. Don't you see? I mean, losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other, outside of work. All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."**_

 _ **"Are you saying it hasn't worked?"**_

 _ **"Are you saying it has?"**_

 _ **"Well perhaps not consistently, but—"**_

 _ **"All I'm suggesting is that maybe we take some time, think about it for a while. That's all."**_

* * *

She'd been unable to stand the stark hurt reflected in his eyes, departing as soon as she'd said her peace, leaving him still sitting in the couch as if rendered unable to move beneath the weight of it all.

She'd been angry with him. She'd believed he'd let her down yet again, and the cost had been the Agency. Her life's work… gone.

He was everything William Westfield was not: irresponsible, impulsive, reckless, lacking a work ethic, rarely serious, forever living his life on a wing and a prayer. He was everything _she_ had once been but could no longer afford to be.

He had made William… _make sense_. William was… the logical… the rational decision. William was exactly who she'd fought to become.

But the heart was neither logical nor rational she'd realized, when she'd taken her seat on the plane next to William. Hers had simply… broken… because the man seated next to her was simply… wrong. He didn't make her pulse race the first time she'd seen him after only a few hours apart. When his hand glanced against hers, she wasn't left a little bit breathless. When he looked at her, his eyes didn't sparkle with the amused appreciation that could leave her nerves aflutter. His scent didn't make her knees go a little bit weak or make her fingers flex, wanting nothing more than to touch him.

He wasn't _him_. And in the end, that was all her heart had cared about.

Which is what had made her get off that plane, return to this building, prepared to enter those walls.

Turning her head and pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, she drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. Then with a sharp nod of her head, as though giving herself permission, she climbed out of the Rabbit slinging purse and carry-on bag over her shoulder, the words she'd said to him replaying in her mind for the hundredth time on the evening. Indicting her. For they had been a lie.

" _ **All we've ever done is play trial-and-error with our personal relationship, as we try to squeeze it into our professional one."**_

It had never been a matter of trying to squeeze their personal relationship into their professional one. It had _always_ been a matter of fearing what came next. It had always been a matter taking the risk, daring to believe that the next step would be the beginning of something new, something richer, not an end.

They'd been frozen in place for too long.

It was time to dig deep, find a little of the Laura Holt who'd once been daring, before she'd learned to be afraid.

Resolved, she stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor, taking a deep breath as she stopped in front of apartment A. Depressing the buzzer, she rested her forehead against the doorframe and waited for him to answer the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Remington's head popped up and swiveled towards the living room as the doorbell announced someone's arrival. His eyes flicked to his watch, and noting the time, his brows drew together in a frown. Monroe's crew had departed with the bulk of his belongings some half-hour ago, and he wasn't expecting the cab for another twenty minutes. With a shrug, he dropped the pair of jeans he'd been folding into the suitcase laying open on the bed, and strode towards the front door as the buzzer sounded again.

"Coming, coming," he called out. A half-dozen long strides later, he swung open the door, admirably concealing his shock at seeing whom was standing on the other side of it. "Miss Holt," he greeted, coolly. "Forget something?"

"No, I…" Laura patted her stomach, trying to quell her rioting nerves. "May I come in?" He made a display of looking at his watch.

"Now's not a good time, I'm afraid," he responded. Her eyes blinked and her lips parted in surprise. She couldn't recall a single time in their association when he'd turned her away.

"We need to talk," she tried again.

"Can't imagine why," he responded, impassively. "Seems to me you covered all the bases with your normal thoroughness." A pained look settled on her face, as she shifted uncomfortably.

"About that—" He gave his watch another glance, perplexing her further. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he confirmed, then added. "And it wouldn't do for me to be late." She drew in her lips, her heart clenching in her chest.

"A date? At this hour?" The words tumbled from her mouth, unplanned in her dismay. The flash of injury in his eyes was quickly concealed with look of indifference and a display of his pearly whites.

"Given our conversation earlier, I believe the answer to that question falls under the heading of 'no longer your concern', wouldn't you agree?" He took some pleasure in her obvious upset at his answer, looking again at his watch as she averted her face and drew in a shaky breath. "Now, if you don't mind—"

"Mr. Steele." She drew out his name in a plea that nearly made her wince, and faced him again, but he'd had enough. For nearly three years he'd played it her way, only to find himself on the losing end for the second time in a little more than six months.

"Goodnight, Miss Holt," he bade, reaching for the door and beginning to close it before a flattened palm laid against it prevented him from completing the action. He swung back open the door, his clenched jaw and stormy countenance making her hand flutter up to lay at her throat.

"We really need to talk," she repeated, drawing herself up to her full height. With a shake of his head and a twitch of his jaw, he spun on his heel to return to his room.

"Have it your way," he said with a flick of his hand behind him. "You normally do." She scrunched her face at his back in dismay. This wasn't at all how she'd hoped things would go. She'd expected him to be angry with her, even standoffish. What she hadn't expected was blatant hostility coupled with outright disinterest. Finding the gumption from somewhere deep inside, she closed the door and dropped her bags on the floor next to the wall, then followed resolutely behind him while speaking.

"I was… upset… confused… earlier. Over our license, in part. I didn't –" Her words came to an abrupt halt as her eyes locked upon the suitcase lying on his bed.

"No need for explanations, Miss Holt," he dismissed as he folded a shirt and dropped in his suitcase, dissembling all the while that he'd neither noticed the abrupt end of her undoubtedly prepared speech nor the look of disbelief upon her face. "I had a little chat with our Mr. Bergman earlier this evening and he saw fit to restore your license immediately. I dropped it in the post 'round bout an hour ago. You should have it in your hands by Monday, I'd imagine."

Slowly, she lifted her head, allowed her eyes to travel towards the closets, their mirrored doors open, their contents gone. She gulped for air as she shook her head, as if doing so would magically replace the contents in the now barren space. She stepped backwards and leaned her back against the wall for support as her knees threatened to buckle.

"You're leaving?" she rasped, forcing the words past a throat that had grown so tight she was struggling to breathe.

He'd watched the scene unfold in those very same mirrored doors, thoroughly torn as his heart clenched at seeing her unconcealed devastation while at the same time it rejoiced she felt even a small measure of what she'd visited upon him hours before. In the end, the wounds inflicted by her were still far too raw, and his anger flashed, demanded he draw some blood of his own.

"That's one of things I always loved about you, Miss Holt. Observant, almost to a fault," he clipped out, tossing a leather jacket on top of the rest of the suitcase's contents, then closing the lid and zipping it closed. Her chest began to rise and fall, rapidly, visibly as two memories from days gone by, the events all too similar to those unfolding now, assailed her. With barely a flicker of his eyes in her direction, lest he fold, he walked past her into the bathroom.

"Are you coming back?" She closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the wall, knowing the answer before the question was asked.

"I don't see why I would," he replied, with a brutal honesty that cut deep. "You've made it abundantly clear there's nothing left for me here." She grasped at the tiny sliver of hope he'd inadvertently offered.

"That's not true," she countered, passionately, drawing out the last word. "I suggested we take time to consider our personal relationship, not our professional." He blew out hard, short, dismissive puff of air between his lips as he passed her, overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

"I believe we've traveled this road before, have we not?" he asked, a pointed reference to those months after Cannes. "A road we agreed, if I recall correctly, neither of us had traveled well… or happily. It's not an experience I'm willing to repeat." Grabbing the handle of his suitcase, he lifted it from the bed and headed towards the living room. In the space of a heartbeat, watching him pick up those bags, she veered from defeated to pluckish.

"So that's it?" she demanded, as she followed in pursuit of him. "What happened to the man who once told me he hoped he'd learn to stand and fight?" Dropping his bags next to the credenza, he whirled to face her, fury turning his crystal blue eyes white hot.

"What do you think I've been doing the last three years?" he bellowed. He paced the floor as he raged, gesticulating frequently. "I stayed as you tried to deny what we both felt between us from the start, then once you'd accepted it, I stayed as you held me at arm's length, giving you the time you needed to work through all your bloody fears and inhibitions." She wrapped her arms around herself and tipped up her chin a notch, vexed by that last. "I stayed after Cannes, accepting your decision as my penance, hoping that you might one day change your mind. I staed even as I was made to watch you flirt with and date men who weren't deserving of you, while I sat here alone, wondering if you taken them into your bed when you'd never given us half chance. Three years of changing who I was, what I was, so that I might finally measure up in your eyes to your mythical Remington Steele. Fight? All I've done is fight, and it's never been enough for you, and tonight you made it patently clear it never will be and neither will I." Finished, he stood, chest heaving from the rant, as he dragged both hands through his hair. She was shaking her head as she approached him.

"I don't need you to be the Remington Steele I created," she corrected, reaching out and gently grasping his upper arms. "The only person I think of when I hear the name, is you." He softened beneath her touch, shifted with uncertainty, then suddenly he was gone, putting space between them again.

"Tell me, Laura, if that were true, why is it you've never called me 'Remington'? Hmmm?" he challenged. She circled her arms around herself again, averted her face.

"I don't know," she answered, earning a derisive laugh from him.

"I think we both know, the ever pragmatic, logical, Laura Holt never does _anything_ without knowing the reason why," he discounted, wearily. "But we both know the why of it, don't we? A name stolen, but never earned. You'll never be able to see past the way I stormed into your life, exposing your secret, claiming the role for my own." She was shaking her head in denial before he finished.

"That's not true. Not now at least," she refuted. "Maybe when I believed you were refusing to tell me your real name and it was just one more thing that you had over me. Wanting me to let you in, yet being unwilling to do the same for me." She dropped her arms then held her hands out, palm up, as if in a plea. "But, that hasn't been the case for a while now." She let out a short sigh, then wrapped her arms around herself again, protectively, as she ambled across the room, brows furrowed, thinking. "Not since Ireland." He'd held his eyes on her throughout, searching for any signs of deception, calming as he found none.

"And since?"

She visibly flinched when he posed the question, the question requiring an honest answer the type of which they'd almost always avoided on a personal level in the past. An answer which would expose her own vulnerabilities, allow them to be exploited, if he so chose. But she'd come there that evening wishing to clear the air between them, hoping they'd finally find a way to close the divide between them, to move forward. Her eyes fell on his suitcases, still positioned near the front door.

"Tonight… after I left here…" she began, shifting her eyes to him, then away, unable to look at him when she said the next, "I got on a plane to go to Mexico with William Westfield." Her eyes darted to him, seeing the instant recognition set in. Emotions danced across his face - hurt, betrayal, disbelief, anger - before his jaw tightened.

"Didn't realize you and he had been dating," he answered quickly, bitterly as he stormed towards her, and grasping her by the arm, took her with him towards the door. "A gentleman should wish the two of you every happiness, but I'm not feeling very sporting at the moment." He threw open the door. "Get out!" She easily pulled her arm from his hand and backed away, tipping her chin up defiantly.

"Not until you hear me out," she refused. He leveled a scorching look upon her.

"Anxious to share the details of how you'd intended to shag the man?" he accused, slamming the door shut. "Have at it then. What was it to be? On your back or—"

"Stop!" she shouted, holding up a palm towards him in emphasis. He clamped his mouth shut, and stood before her, glowering, his chest heaving. "Stop before you say something neither of us will ever be able to get past," she pleaded, voice softening. He laughed softly, sardonically, as he rubbed a hand over his mouth and sidled past her.

"Oh, a bit late for that, don't you think? I think you've already said more than enough—"

"I don't think it is, if you'd just let me _finish_." Face pinched with distress, he turned to look at her while shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He leveled his eyes on her, daring her to lie to him.

"You _had_ planned to screw the man, hadn't you?" She winced at his choice of words and the venom with which they'd been said. "A man you've only known two days… a suspect at that?" Her eyes held his as she answered.

"I'd considered going to bed with him, yes," she admitted, a hand fingering her throat. Her face scrunched up and she had to look away from the raw hurt on his face she knew he hadn't wished her to see. With a sharp nod of his head, he walked towards the door again.

"Then it would seem more than enough has been said," he announced, swinging open the door. "If you wouldn't mind—"

"I'm twenty-nine years old, Mr. Steele," she spoke as though he'd never said a thing, as she slowly circled the living room, not looking at him. "It's been more than five years since Wilson walked out, and I haven't dated _any_ man more than a handful of times, let alone gone to bed with any of them. Too driven, not motivated enough, too misogynistic, too boorish, too boring. And that was alright. I've never been prone towards one-night stands, casual arrangements, or going to bed with a man simply because I had an itch that needed to be scratched." His hand still holding the door open, he couldn't take his eyes off her as in three sentences he'd learned more about her romantic past than she'd shared in three years. She shrugged a shoulder. "And as my grandmother used to say to me 'Sometimes you have to date a lot of frogs, before you find a prince.' I'd believed I'd found a prince in Wilson, but instead he taught me a prince can sometimes turn into a frog without warning," she commented, ruefully.

"Am I to take it, then, that I'm yet another frog whereas Westfield is the prince in this little scenario of yours?" he speculated as to where she was going with this tale appeared to take shape, his anger piquing again.

"No, you aren't," she corrected, then lifted her face to the ceiling and placed a hand on her forehead even as he took some solace in her answer. "Three years, Mr. Steele and we're still frozen in place. I needed to know, if it's because of you or me." Releasing the door, he took several cautious steps towards her.

"And?" She turned to look at him while lifting her hands and dropping them.

"It's me… it's you… it's us." She growled in frustration. "You dole out pieces of your past as you see fit, but either you don't trust me to understand or you don't trust that I'll keep you and your secrets safe. It's…difficult…" she noted with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand, "To believe this, between us, isn't just a temporary amusement… a challenge… when you hide so much of yourself away from me. A part of me, a very large part, is afraid what Daniel said is true."

* * *

" _ **Miss Holt, Harry is one of a kind. A true… artist. The only reason he hasn't painted himself out of your life is that the two of you have yet to experience the, umm, ultimate moment."**_

* * *

"You can't give weight to Daniel's claims," he insisted. "He's his own agenda, one which you don't fit into."

"Can't I?" she disputed. "You've told me often enough that you can't make a commitment beyond today."

"You're still afraid you'll wake tomorrow and find me gone," he summed up. "Shouldn't nearly three years of remaining here hold some weight?" Her eyes moved pointedly to the suitcases waiting next to the front door. "Excepting today, of course," he added, with a small, pained smile.

"Then there's me," she continued. "Every time we move even the slightest bit in the direction of becoming…" she gesticulated between them and blushed at the mere thought, "…intimate, I… panic… I freeze, I _leave_ , as if I'm a sixteen-year-old virgin who's afraid of doing the deed. I'm twenty-nine, for God's sake, and certainly not a virgin. I'm attracted to you, always have been. I _like_ spending time with you… Look forward to it, actually. I _dream_ about us, as lovers. So, what's stopping me?" She paused to heave a frustrated breath. "I thought if I could go away with William, if I could…" she couldn't put into words and see _that_ look on his face, "…then I'd know it wasn't me, but specific to you. As it turned out, I only had to think about doing it to find the answer."

"Which was?"

"You scare the hell out of me. That I'm angry not with you, but myself. Because good or bad, right or wrong, smart or foolish, and all in spite of the promises I'd made to myself a long time ago—"

She stopped speaking abruptly as a knock sounded on the still open door. They turned their heads as one to stare at an unfamiliar man standing in the door way.

"Someone called for a pick up from this address?" the man inquired. Remington mentally damned the cab driver to perdition for interrupting. Searching his pockets, he found his wallet and peeled off several bills, handing them to the man.

"This should cover the fare you would have made and something for yourself as well. I'll call back should I still need assistance." The driver skimmed through the money handed him and a smile lit his face.

"Thank you, sir. The name's Frank if you decide you need a ride." Remington fought the urge to slam the door behind the man, instead closing it quietly then turned to find Laura had moved to stand behind him.

"You were saying?" he prompted. She swallowed hard and flexed the fingers of a hand in her nervousness. She'd resolved one of them would have to take the leap first, and since she'd been the one to walk away, it was up to her to lay ownership to what she wanted, what, she now realized, she'd wanted for nearly three years. She stepped close to him, and lay a palm on his chest.

"I don't want to play games any longer, Remington," she told him, speaking in the general direction of a shoulder. "I want you, all of you," she drew in a breath, and, lifting soft brown eyes to stunned blue ones, she was finally honest with him, and herself. "I love you."


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Please note, this chapter includes NC-17 material. If you are uncomfortable with such material or under the age of 18, please continue to the next chapter.**_

Chapter 3

Remington grew still as a statue at the words. Time seemed to slow down, then stop, as Laura searched his face for any clues as to what he was thinking. She grew nervous, her fingers twitching against his chest. She'd known the risk when she'd made her decision to return to the Rossmore, to be truly honest with him… and herself. _All or nothing, Holt_. It had become a mantra in her head. If, afterwards, he declined what she was offering, her body _and heart_ , then she could move on. Not easily, never easily. But she would have done everything within her power to give them a chance.

He'd had a hard enough time concentrating, was unable to slow down the sudden acceleration of his heart, after she'd called him Remington for the very first time in their association. Had there ever been a more wonderful sound than his name said in her lovely, lilting voice? She hadn't had to explain what using the name meant: acceptance that Remington Steele was not only who he was, but who he wished to remain. Acceptance of _him_ , something he'd longed for, only until she'd given it to him, he hadn't realized how badly he'd _needed_ that from her.

He'd barely had time to assimilate the first, when the second had arrived. _I want you, all of you_. The words pulsed in his blood stream, had made his knees weaken. Had it only been a few scant hours ago that he'd finally conceded those were words that he'd never hear spoken by her, to him? To hear them now made worth all the years of frustration, aggravation, every cold shower he'd ever taken because she'd left him burning with need to feel her slim frame beneath his hands, his lips.

It was the last which had left him struck mute, unable to move. _She loves me?!_ Never before had someone said the words to him and truly meant them. But this was Laura. _She'd_ never say the words to gain advantage, to brag that he'd been conquered, to gain something. It was there in her eyes when she'd said he words, the fear he'd abuse her heart now that she had turned it over to him. And the confusion reflected in those limpid, amber pools as she looked at him now spoke volumes: she had not a clue that his own heart had just fallen into her hands.

She shifted in uncertainty, her hand dropping from his chest, prepared to fly the flag of defeat and walk away.

Then, suddenly, he was all motion, his hands cupping her face, drawing her back to him

"You're not going anywhere," he rumbled in the instant before he bent his head and his lips laid siege to hers.

Her arms flew away from her sides, he'd caught her so unawares, then returned so one hand could caress a shoulder and arm, while the other buried itself in his hair. He kissed her in a manner that he'd only once previously done, with a hard determination comprised of burning desire and years of pent up frustration. His hands caressed, aimlessly, her neck, her shoulders, and buried in her hair. He fed unapologetically on her lips, at times more roughly than he'd done that night in Acapulco, and she had not a doubt her lips would be bruised in the morning. But, she didn't care. She was secretly thrilled that she could do this to him and she responded with a fervor that matched his own.

Then, abruptly he ended the kiss, cupping her face in his palms once again.

"Laura," he murmured the single word, as much a question as a statement. He searched her face, her eyes, for any signs of indecision. What he found was a pair of sultry brown eyes with a daring gleam lighting them and a pair of desire pinkened cheeks. He looked further down, and watched as she drug her hands up his torso, thoroughly enthralled as she released one button… then another on his shirt. He captured her hands in his and shook his head. "My bed. I want you in my bed," he told her gruffly, then swung her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected, this, their first time together, although most often when she dreamed about it, she'd imagined an evening of romance, of slow seduction, leading inexorably up to that ultimate moment. Perhaps it was because of all the emotions that had been swirling around them for hours as she'd left him then returned, or maybe it was simply for no other reason than they'd been denying themselves this moment for nearly three years, but there would be nothing slow about this first time.

As soon as her feet touched the carpeted floor of his bedroom, they made quick work of removing one another's clothing. Laura's fingers returned to releasing each of the buttons on his shirt, only pausing to lift her arms above her head when he gathered the hem of her sweater in his hands and relieved her of the garment, tossing it carelessly aside. His shirt, her bra, her pants and panties, then his pants and briefs followed. Only when both were bare, did his lips find hers again, as a she pressed her palms against his shoulders, easing him backwards to sit on the edge of the bed after he'd impatiently, blindly, tugged back bedspread and sheet.

She straddled his lap, threading her fingers through his hair and easing his mouth back to hers as she raised up, preparing to take him inside. His hands clutched desperately at her hips, holding her still, as he broke the kiss to gasp…

"Condom," he insisted.

"Pill," she countered.

Balancing herself with her hands on his shoulders, she eased herself down onto his rigid shaft. He'd barely entered her, when she had to stop as his unexpected girth stretched her passage and her muscles contracted. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder, panting, his hand caressing her bottom, his lips her neck, as she adjusted to him, then she moved again taking him further inside, until, at last, he was sheathed to the hilt within her, setting off a whole host of sensations in her slim frame, which left her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Remington was overwhelmed by the pure sensuality of the hot, wet, tightness of her body, which threatened to take him immediately into oblivion. He called on his extensive experience and sheer power of will to hold himself off as she found her rhythm. She drove herself hard against him, discovering for herself the rhythm, the tilt of her hips that would give them both the most pleasure. When she gasped, her rhythm faltered, he pressed a hand to the bed to support him as he thrust his hips hard and fast, as her climax rolled over her. His jaw clenched when he felt her body shuddering beneath his hands, her passage clenching, fluttering around him, as wave-after-wave of ecstasy left her moaning his name against his neck, her fingernails digging into his back.

Laura groaned, left bereaved when he lifted her from his lap, gently disengaging their bodies, then murmured contentedly when he lay her on the bed, and stretched out over top of her. Her arms wrapped around his lean body and she lifted her hips in welcome when he slid inside her again. He drove her hard and fast towards that most sought after peak again, and when she broke, climaxing around him for the second time, he allowed her body to drag his under with her, whispering her name as he stilled above her. He collapsed on top of her, breathing hard against her shoulder, as she luxuriated in the feeling of his body covering hers.

When he'd caught his breath, and found his faculties enough to form a coherent thought, he pressed upwards, bracing himself on an elbow, tucking a sweat dampened tendril behind her ear.

"Now, m' Laura, we'll be doin' this my way," he hummed, the Irish lilt tinging his words leaving her smiling and drawing a hand through his hair. Leaning in to kiss her he, stopped, his lips hovering over hers when she spoke.

"We'll see," she answered with a pert lift of her brows, her brown eyes glimmering in challenge. His warm, answering laugh, was muffled when their lips met.

* * *

Not long before the sun would first peek over the horizon, Laura and Remington tumbled into bed after sharing a long, hot shower. She lay on her back, he on his side, with an arm flung over her waist and a leg tucked between hers. Eyes closed, a smile lifted his lips, as he recalled their lovemaking. After years of holding him at arm's length, he'd imagine she'd be reticent, timid at first, should they ever cross that line and had been inordinately pleased to find she poured all of herself into lovemaking, much as anything else she did. She'd held nothing back from him, clearly reveling in every touch of his hands, his lips, vocalizing her pleasure with sharp intakes of breath, with little sighs and with throaty moans that made his blood run all the hotter. Wilson Jeffries had once described her as 'absurdly passionate.' _Good God, I certainly hope so_ , Remington thought to himself now, for his hunger for her had not been slaked in the least now that he'd had her, but had only been magnified ten-fold.

He laughed, silently.

His partner and lady fair was a devilish little minx in bed. She'd allowed him to have his way with her at length until she'd seen the smug look in his eyes which said he'd believed he'd come and conquered… And then she'd abruptly turned the tables on him, until she'd left him the quivering mass of flesh he'd intended her to be, and it was he who was the recipient of a similarly smug smile as she'd leaned down and looked at him, from where she still straddled his hips.

It was, without a doubt, the best sex he'd ever had, including the courtesan who'd taught him a few tricks in his earlier years. And after this first taste of her, he'd discovered he'd gladly bind himself to her for life if it meant a lifetime of nights like this one. Glorious lovemaking with the woman he'd long loved. Yes, a man could do far, far worse that a life such as that.

She stirred beside him. Eyes still closed her hand sought the hand at her waist and she tangled their fingers together. He shifted even closer, so he could nuzzle his cheek against her head and immerse himself in the scent that was so uniquely her.

"Promise me, Remington," she whispered into the darkened room.

"What's that?" he whispered in return, his breath rustling her hair. She extricated him from around her body and rolled to face him, solemn brown eyes blinking in the darkened room at hm.

"That I won't wake alone in the morning." He caressed her cheek with his hand, then allowed his fingers to toy with her hair.

"I'm not going anywhere, Laura," he told her with quiet earnestness, emphasizing each word. He pressed his lips against her forehead, let them linger before dropping his chin so their eyes met again. She nodded her head, accepting him at his word, then gladly moved into his arms when he rolled to his back, resting her head against his chest when he opened an inviting arm. Then, figuring a bit of tit-for-tat was in order, given he has his own insecurities which could use some reassurance, he mimicked her request. "Promise me something, Laura." She bent back her head, so their eyes could connect.

"What?"

"In the light of day, you won't change your mind." She reached up and caressed his cheek, much as he had hers.

"I won't."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

They spent the weekend together neither by design nor plan. It simply hadn't occurred to either of them that Laura might wish to go home. They had, however, quite purposefully, taken steps to assure the world at large would not infringe on their time together, Remington instructing the doorman that any potential guests for 5A were to be informed he was away for the weekend, while Laura had unplugged the phone with a jaunty look cast his way. They'd ventured out of the protective bubble they'd created only once, for a quick trip to the market to stock the larder.

They'd made love frequently, had catnapped often. They'd played, they'd danced, and they'd had long, quiet conversations. A romantic dinner, prepared by his own hand, was followed by dancing on the terrace as music from the sound system in the living room wafted outside, and afterwards, strawberries and champagne before the fireplace, accompanied by the slow seduction she'd long assumed would mark their first time together. A long soak in a jacuzzi tub filled with hot water helped ease away the aches from their antics.

They were both, on occasion, caught reflecting on how naturally, how easily, they cohabitated. There were no rollicking fights, although there was a great deal of good-natured bantering. When he cooked, she cleaned up afterwards. For a man who'd spent a lifetime taking his leave with a wink and a smile long before the sun rose, he thought nothing of sharing a sink, shaving and brushing his teeth as she did her hair and applied a light layer of makeup or of conceding part of his suddenly limited wardrobe to her.

He discovered there was nothing quite so alluring as Laura draped in one of his dress shirts, wearing nothing but a scant pair of panties beneath, unless it was her wearing one of his pajama tops as they fell asleep of a night.

She'd always known his foot massages were to die for, but discovered his all over body massages gave new meaning to the phrase "heaven on earth."

On early Sunday evening, they'd retired to the sofa in his living room, stretched out on their sides, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, as they indulged in _Casablanca_ (Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Paul Henreid, Warner Brothers, 1942). Midway through the movie, he reached for her hand, tangling and untangling their fingers, his thumb stroking her palm as he became lost in his own thoughts. Whereas only a mere few days ago, such introspection would have left her worrying he was dreaming of exotic locales and how he might be planning his exit in favor of one of them, now she simply continued watching the movie, knowing he'd share whatever it was that was on his mind when he was ready. She smiled when she felt him stir behind him and he leaned down so that his lips hovered over her ear.

"I love you, Laura," he whispered. She tilted back her head so she could look at him and lay her fingertips against his jaw.

"I know," she answered with quiet confidence. She was rewarded with a dazzling smile and kiss that made her toes curl.

And, she reflected as she sat in the Rabbit Monday morning staring up at the Rossmore, the wonder of it all was not that she did, but she hadn't realized it long before. For between those walls on the fifth floor lived a man who'd arrived a thief, had chosen to change the course of his life… and himself… and was now one of the most respected men in Los Angeles. Within those walls lived a one time vagabond and nefarious Lothario who'd seen something that might be real and lasting and had chosen to stay in the hopes it would come to fruition.

Between those walls a romance had played out, one that overshined those of Joe Bradley and Princess Ann, John Robie and Frances Stevens, C.K. Dexter Haven and Tracy Lord… and yes, even that of Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund.

With a smile on her lips, Laura pulled away from the curb and drove towards the loft so she could get dressed for the workday ahead. She twirled her hair around her finger as she wondered how that same romance might play out within the walls of the Agency, where over the years many a kiss had been given and stolen, now that they'd crossed that line.

If it was anything like these past three years, she was game.


End file.
